What is a Drow?
by Star Tae
Summary: Legolas has a very curious pair of creatures in the Greenwood. One of them, he isn't even sure what it is, but it sounds like a dwarf.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Legolas, Tauriel, or Mirkwood's King. Those glorious elves belong to Tolkien. I also don't own Guenhwyvar, Drizzt Do'Urden, or the King of Mithril Hall. Unfortunately, they belong to R.A. Salvatore. I did concoct Bruenor Battlehammer Do'Urden though 'cause I don't think there could be anything cuter than an elf with an adorable brogue who is more like a dwarf to boot:)

And with that in mind, shouldn't he meet the one elf in middle earth that actually learns to like dwarves?

" _My prince_."

Legolas turned to the guard that called him thus while out in the forest for patrols, brow arched. The guard looked chagrined for but a moment. " _Forgive me, but we have found something…unusual_ ," the silvan guard—Evorlis—said, beckoning his prince to follow him away from the main base camp along one of the scheduled patrol routes.

When they arrived to find the rest of Evorlis's patrol, Legolas found he had to agree with his fellow guard. The sight was indeed unusual. It was a panther unlike any he had heard of or seen before. It was huge—at least six hundred pounds—and watching them with intelligent eyes. Its wary gaze flickered around to rest on each of the elves positioned around it with bows taunt. However, that wasn't even the most curious thing.

Its body was hovering protectively over a prone figure even more unusual than the cat. From the ears, Legolas suspected the unconscious warrior to be an elf, but the similarity to any elf line he knew of ended there.

This creature's skin was like onyx and its hair a stark contrast. Tucked in his snow white curls was a slender, but sturdy, circlet of what had to be Mithril. Every trace of metal on him—his breastplate, his bracers, the ornate cuff on his ear, even the bands around his exposed biceps—appeared to be mithril, exquisitely crafted mithril. It glowed in its brilliance.

Legolas made to approach the prone figure, and the cat standing guard released a warning rumble from deep in its throat as it fixed its green eyes on the elven prince. The elven guards drew back further on their bows in response and the cat crouched lower, dropping its head so that the only thing visible of the elf it guarded was one slender, ebony hand.

" _I do not mean him harm_ ," he told the cat. " _I merely wish to check for injury_ ," he said in Sindarin, hoping the softly spoken words would soothe the beast. The cat, however, seemed to understand the words themselves, for it not only moved from its hovering position to allow Legolas access to its charge, but it nudged the unusual elf to expose a wound to the back of his head.

Legolas cautiously approached, his eyes focused on the cat, careful to make no sudden movements as he knelt by the prone stranger. He allowed his eyes to drop to the dark-skinned elf, trusting his guards to watch the cat. The back of the elf's shortly cropped white head was tinged pink. Legolas gently prodded the injury, brushing the soft strands of white silk aside, but found nothing that would indicate a serious head wound. " _It does not appear that he damaged his skull. The blow merely broke the skin_ ," he said, glancing up at the cat. He was startled to see the cat's features relax at the words. As if the panther's previous expression was one of worry that Legolas had succeeded in alleviating.

Legolas felt along the elf's neck and gently prodded his limbs for any breaks, but found none. Legolas met the cat's gaze again, and decided to test his theory regarding the creature's understanding. " _May I remove his armor to check for injury_?" he asked. He was no longer surprised when the cat nodded its consent.

The elven prince unfastened the mithril breastplate, admiring the beautifully crafted piece. His eyes took in the crest at its center. A foaming mug of ale it appeared to be. Legolas thought it an odd crest to be worn by an elf. It seemed more dwarven in its style, but he let it pass as he set the breastplate aside. The fragile appearing chainmail beneath was also of mithril, and the prince now marveled. This dark-skinned elf was garbed in a fortune of the priceless metal.

Legolas slid his hands beneath mail and tunic to press at the strange elf's torso. He earned a soft cry for his effort from the elf and a rumble from the panther. His gaze flickered to the face of the injured elf to see his white brows drawn together in pain. " _His ribs are bruised, but do not feel broken_ ," Legolas said, meeting the panther's emerald gaze. " _Still, I cannot be sure. He needs a healer_ ," Legolas added. " _Will you permit us to carry him to our main camp? We have healers there_."

Legolas watched with a measure of amusement as the panther visibly seemed to muse over the offer as it stared down on the strange elf, its eyes glancing uncertainly at Legolas and then the surrounding guards before settling on its prone charge once more. Its large, liquid eyes seemed to soften as it watched the dark-skinned elf where he lay, nuzzling the unique elf before meeting the elven prince's gaze and nodding its consent.

Legolas motioned to Evorlis. " _Bring a stretcher_ ," he ordered.


	2. Chapter 2

Still don't own Legolas or any of Tolkien's charcters, and certainly not R.A. Salvatore's creations. I just borrowed them. I'm gonna give 'em back!

Bruenor Battlehammer Do'Urden slowly came back to consciousness feeling like one, giant, bruise. His head hurt, and no amount of blinking seemed to be clearing the blur in his vision. He was lying down. The air around him was close, like he was in the mines, but heavy with moisture. It was _off_ somehow.

He could feel it against the skin on his chest. His armor and mail had been removed, as well as his tunic and shirt. He tried to sit up, but a hand pressed him back down. A blur of fair skin and pale hair came across his vision. "Mick?" he said, the name coming out as a bare whisper. "Is that you? Son o' an orc, me ribs an' head be hurtin'," he added to his cousin, only to stiffen as the face gazing down on him came into focus. The eyes were silver-gray.

Bruenor jerked away, jarring his injuries, but ignoring the pain as he sought to put distance between him and this stranger.

He fell. The other elf reached for him, calling out in a language Bruenor didn't know. He hadn't realized he was in a tree. A really, really tall tree.

He closed his eyes, waiting for impact, when he heard a familiar roar, the scrape of claws, and suddenly he was incased in the all-familiar limbs of Guenhwyvar before they struck the forest floor in a roll. She had broken his fall.

"Guen," he said, burying his face in the cat's neck. She was purring, rubbing her head against his curls. "Ye're alreet, lass?" he asked, his slender hands barely discernable against her black fur as they lay reverently on either side of the cat's face. Emerald eyes met emerald eyes, and she smiled at him, before licking him from his chin to the crown of his head. "Aye, I'm alreet, girl. Me head jus' hurts fit to split is all," he told her. He stood to his feet, allowing the cat to roll to hers. She nudged him gently in the ribs. He grunted. "Aye, they hurt, but I don't think it's bad," he told her, running his hands down the length of her.

"Ye didn't hurt yerself now, did ye? Savin' me black arse from fallin' out o' the tree," he said, returning to face her. The wheezing puffs of breath she blew in his face didn't alarm him. He knew she was laughing at him. "Yeah, yeah, laugh i' up," he told her with a grin. "An elf fell ou' of a tree." He buried his face against her soft hide again. So glad for a familiar face, especially since his senses told him that they were completely surrounded by armed and ready elves.

Bruenor searched his memory, trying to pinpoint how they ended up in an unfamiliar—and dare he say creepy—forest with a bunch of elves. He remembered getting tossed off a ledge by a drow-made monster, his grandfather screaming for Guen to catch him and go home. Something went wrong though, when Guen tried to take them to the Astral plane.

He heard the elves speaking to one another, but didn't understand any of it. He didn't understand where he was, how they got there, or what these elves were saying. It was for the best that he didn't understand the words of the elves though. He might have struck out at them at their insinuations.

" _Legolas, what if he's a new type of orc?_ " Evorlis asked, careful not to use his prince's title in case this creature was the enemy and it could understand them.

Legolas' eyes slanted toward Evorlis, indicating he had heard the other Captain, before returning to watch the strange elf with the giant cat. " _Do you feel malice or shadow around either of them?_ " he asked his warriors. When none of his warriors answered, the prince added, " _Neither do I_." Legolas then approached the oddly similar pair. Two pairs of vibrant green eyes turned to watch his approach. The slightly lighter shaded gaze of the elf was far more wary of them now than the cat. The panther just observed his approach expectantly. " _We mean you no harm_ ," the prince said in Sindarin.

The dark elf arched a snow-white brow at him. "I didn't catch a lick o' that," he replied.

It was Legolas' turn to arch a brow. The stranger seemed to be speaking something akin to the tongue of men, but the wording was strange. "Do you understand me now?" he asked in Westron. Legolas watched as the guarded look on the elf's face eased to one of relief.

"Aye," Bruenor answered. "Now ye be speakin' words I understand," he added. Legolas' eyes widened slightly as he realized why the Westron seemed so odd coming from this elf. The dark elf spoke the language with a very heavy dwarven brogue.

"You speak Westron like a dwarf," Legolas said matter-of-factly, wincing slightly as he realized the insult to the elf. At least, any elf he knew would have been insulted. This odd elf seemed to take the statement as a compliment. He grinned. The expression brightened his whole face, adding to his features a touch of mischief.

"I thank ye," he said. "I think. Wha's Westron?" He stepped away from the cat toward the elf, only to halt his approach as he heard blades drawn and bowstrings grow taunt. "Me name's Bruenor Battlehammer Do'Urden," the dark elf said, seeming uncertain about approaching to offer his hand to the fair-skinned elf now. "I'm no' like other Drow," he added.

"What is a Drow?" Legolas asked, signaling his warriors to stand down as he moved to close the distance between them. He watched as the exotic elf's eyes widened in surprise.

"Ye've ne'er saw a Drow before?!" Bruenor asked, suddenly anxious. He ignored the elves for now and turned back to Guenhwyvar. "Guen, where in the nine hells are we?!" he asked her. He felt panicked. None of the landscape around him was familiar, there were surface elves that had never seen a Drow, and the ledge he was tossed from was underground, not even on the surface. Yet, here he was in a forest. Looking back at the elf he also noticed something else.

He glowed.

Not his eyes in the infrared, but all of him, making the infrared in the clearing unnecessary with all the elves surrounding him. "Mum, da, Grady, where?" Bruenor fell to his knees, completely at a loss of what to do. He felt Guen lay beside him, nudging his side, and he draped his arm over her.

At least Guen was with him, but for how long? He didn't have the statuette. His grandfather did. How long could she survive in this world, or plane, or whatever it was, away from the Astral plane? He wondered as he looked at her. Could she even go home from here if she were wounded or tired? Would she fade away and leave him there alone? Bruenor felt the elf move closer and kneel near him, but he only had eyes for Guen. She was his anchor to home.

And she could be taken from him at any time.

"Are you in pain?" the elf asked him.

Bruenor looked at him then, but the image was blurry. He realized there were tears standing in his eyes, as well as a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with his injuries. "I'm lost," Bruenor told him, his voice sounding small, even to his own ears. "I do no' know where o' how I go' here," he added, his hand clenching tightly onto Guen's scruff. He felt his lip tremble as an image of his mother came to mind. "An' I do no' know how to go home from here."

Legolas saw the sheen in the odd creature's eyes, and knew it for what it was. He wondered how old this elf was. He had to be very young. Old enough to be a warrior, but young enough to cry for home. "We will help, if we can," the prince told the dark-skinned elf. He wondered if he could keep his word once they brought these two to his father, but he wanted to try. Something about this elf made him want to try.


	3. Chapter 3

Still don't own Legolas or any of Tolkien's charcters, and certainly not R.A. Salvatore's creations. I just borrowed them. I'm gonna give 'em back!

To those kind souls that took the time to review . . . THANK YOU:)

Bruenor picked at the berries and nuts the elves had given him to eat, and let out a gusty sigh. "Wha' I wouldn' give to 'ave a nice bit o' roasted mutton an' a mug o' ale reet now," he muttered under his breath.

"Is the food not to your liking?"

Bruenor jumped, startled, but did not back away. He had no wish to fall out of the tree again. He glanced at the healer that he had awoken to earlier. Mearnin. "It'll serve," Bruenor said, feeling guilty for complaining of the offering. "I do no' mean to be trouble," Bruenor added, quirking a small smile for the healer's benefit.

Mearnin returned the dimpled smile of this exotic elf with a soft smile of his own. "How are your ribs feeling?" he asked.

"Stout enough," Bruenor answered, deliberately popping a berry into his mouth and forcing himself to eat it with a straight face, before asking, "is this where ye live? In this tree?" Bruenor glanced around the small 'flet' as the elves called it, disappointed. The structure was so small that Guen had to remain on the ground beneath him.

"Nay, master Bruenor," the healer said, holding out a flask of water to his patient. "This is merely a temporary touch point for our patrols," Mearnin told him, as Bruenor set the berry and nut-filled leaf to the side to accept a drink.

"I think I will wrap your ribs, just to be safe," the healer said. While Mearnin set about wrapping the young elf's ribs, he told the dark elf, "Some of us are due to return home. We will begin the trek back to our city once the new rotation has arrived and all of the other guards scheduled for leave return from their current patrols. We could never live so exposed," the healer told him, "not with the spiders as they are now."

"Spiders?" Bruenor asked, a little apprehensive.

"Yes," Mearnin said, pulling the bandage tight enough to draw a small grunt from the dark-skinned elf. "Full grown, their bodies alone exceed the height of a full grown elf in length. That does not account for leg length." The healer didn't seem to notice the wide-eyed, stunned expression of his patient. Instead, he simply tied off the bandage and indicated the dark elf could dress.

"I don't like spiders," Bruenor said, carefully slipping his shirt over his head with the help of the healer. "We're no' gonna see any, are we?" he asked, reaching for his tunic. His thoughts went to a story his Grady told him about climbing a shaft in Mithril Hall. His Grady, Bruenor Battlehammer, eighth and tenth king of Mithril Hall, had been bitten by a giant spider. He was never sure if the old dwarf was toying with him or telling the truth, but the great grandson and namesake of the dwarven king did know one thing. He never wanted to come across a spider that size himself.

The drow of Menzoberranzan might worship spiders and that spider whore, Lloth, but not him. By Moradin's beard, he HATED spiders. Big. Little. Poisonous or not. He didn't care. Bruenor Battlehammer Do'Urden had one overpowering weakness that only those closest to him knew.

He was afraid of spiders.

His cousin and best friend, Mick, would say Bruenor squealed like a girl anytime he saw one. Bruenor would deny it, even if it was true.

He missed Mick.

He missed all of them. Even uncle Pwent. Bruenor was pretty sure he'd hug that old battlerager if the dwarf suddenly appeared in front of him, smelly or not. He'd been away from the mines before, sometimes for months at a time and never missed home like he was right now. But then, home had never felt this far away before.

"How is our guest, Mearnin?" Legolas asked. Bruenor hadn't even noticed the other elf's arrival, and the elf had brought a friend. Bruenor perked up when he saw the female. She had red in her hair.

He liked red.

Bruenor missed the words between Legolas and the healer, as the female approached him, kneeling beside Bruenor to introduce herself. "Greetings," she said, with a tentative smile. "I am Tauriel."

"No need to be so formal-like," he told her with a dimpled grin. "Me name's Bruenor," he added, extending his hand to her. She seemed at a loss, so he leaned forward, despite his ribs protesting, and gripped her pale hand in his ebony one, giving it a shake. When he made to let go, she held on. He could see surprised wonder. It was written all over her face. Most of the other elves had looked on him with wariness. Not the outright terror he was accustom to on the surface back home when met with strangers, but just the wariness often shown to the unknown. He found it refreshing.

This female, Tauriel, was fascinated though, not wary. He found her interest downright flattering. He thought of asking for his hand back, but found he didn't have the heart. Besides, her hands were soft as she ran her fingers across his knuckles and examined his palm. A polite clearing of the throat from Legolas had her dropping Bruenor's hand as if it were a hot coal though. "I beg your pardon, Bruenor," she said, disconcerted.

"Nay, lass," he said with a grin. "Nothin' to be ashamed of," he added, with a wink. "As I understand it, ye've ne'er saw a drow before," he said. "I can understand ye'd be curious."

"Do all drow sound like you, Bruenor?" Tauriel couldn't help but ask as Legolas sat with them. She found it . . . lyrical.

He seemed to be at a loss for a moment, but then smiled, amused. "Nay, lass. I were raised with the dwarves o' Mithril Hall. Most drow wouldn't sit pretty like this an' chat with ye. They're no' fond o' one another, and they hate all other races, especially other elves." Bruenor didn't see Legolas stiffen when he mentioned being raised by dwarves, but Tauriel did. "Me Da is the son o' the king o' Mithril Hall's adopted daughter, Cattibrie, an' the drow ranger, Drizzt Do'Urden," he said, proudly, but his smile faltered as he added, "no' that ye know of 'em or Mithril Hall." His shoulders slumped for a moment, but he seemed to be a naturally upbeat creature, so the melancholy was quickly shaken off. "I don't suppose ye 'ave wizards here?"


	4. Chapter 4

I apologize to all of those following and my reviewers. I hadn't realized that I'd gone so long without updating:(

I don't own any of Tolkien's sweet elves, nor do I own Salvatore's Guen:) It's a shame, I know.

Bruenor followed after Legolas and the others returning to their home in open-mouthed wonder—or-horror—even Bruenor himself wasn't sure which emotion fit the moment. The woods around him were stately and broken, beautiful and twisted. He may have been an elf raised in a mine full of dwarves, but even he was elf enough to pick up on the fact that something was seriously wrong with this place. "So," he said, glancing sideways at Tauriel, "wha' is wit' the trees?" he asked. "The forest seems," he floundered a moment for a word to describe it, "sick."

The smile Tauriel gave him as they wove silently down the path was wistful. "It was not always so," she said, "but shadow has fallen on these lands."

"Huh?" was all Bruenor could manage at that.

"Forgive me," she said, her smile lightening in amusement at his expression of confusion. "I forget that you are as unfamiliar with our world as we would be with yours." She held a gnarled branch back to allow him to pass her as she began to explain about the history of their world. She talked of Mordor and Sauron, the Nine Riders, and the weakness of Isildur. Every once in a while, one of the other elves would interject something into the narrative; their initial wariness having worn off under Bruenor's child-like curiosity and contagious good-humor.

"Sound s like ye could use some Harkles," Bruenor said with a small whistle.

"What is a Harkle?" Tauriel asked, her eyes flickering across Bruenor's features.

"Who are the Harkles woul' be the better question," Bruenor answered, the r's rolling off his tongue like a song to Tauriel's ears. "They're a family of wizards an' friends o' me family," he added, suddenly coming to a stop, his eyes widening in alarm as he caught sight of something above him. Tauriel's gaze darted to the same, her hand jumping to her bow, only to relax as she saw the webs far above. "Is tha' wha' I think i' is?" Bruenor asked, his brogue becoming even more pronounced in his nervousness. His eyes flickering to Tauriel and then back to the gargantuan webs above, "spiders?" he asked, the word coming a little higher in pitch.

"Yes," she answered, "though I do not sense any near us at the moment, we are passing near a recently exterminated nest." She began walking again, beckoning Bruenor to follow. "Are you afraid of spiders, Master Bruenor?"

"Jus' Bruenor, lass," he said, before considering her question. "As fer the spiders, of course I'm no—" His eyes met hers as she glanced back at him, one delicate brow was arched and amusement was written all over her face. "Fine! Yes. I hate spiders, even little ones. I'd 'ave been happy if they'd ne'er been made," he confessed. "There, I said it." He saw the amused faces of the elves nearest him and told them, "go on, laugh i' up."

There was a light amount of ribbing from the elves and a sense of camaraderie grew between this odd elf and this group of mirkwood elves. Tauriel, watching Bruenor interact with her fellow guards found she wasn't surprised. Bruenor just had an air about him that beckoned to their spirits. "It is difficult to believe that he was a stranger a day ago." At the words, Tauriel turned and dipped her head toward her prince.

"It is," she acknowledged. "It seems as if he is one of us and always has been," she added. Her brow suddenly creased with concern. "Do you think the King will feel the same?" she asked, fearing the answer, but hoping for reassurance. She liked Bruenor, even if he was raised by dwarves, or perhaps because of it. It just made him an even greater curiosity.

"I hope so," Legolas answered, uncertain. "But I fear at the first mention of dwarves, father will alienate Bruenor at best, imprison him at worst." Legolas frowned at the thought. His eyes followed Bruenor who was laughing brightly; the sound seemed to push the heaviness of the air back for a moment. Evorlis was sharing a tale, and when both of their eyes turned back to meet his, Legolas knew he somehow figured into the story in an unfavorable light. But as his guards nearly skipped with the lightness of spirit that currently rested on the group, he found he didn't care what story was being bandied about. Anything that lifted the spirits of his people was worth it.

Legolas should have known the moment would be stolen though, shattered as the dark elf's cat bounded into the clearing with a frantic roar. Something was wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

I still don't own any of R.A. Salvatore's or Tolkien's glorious characters, nor do I profit from any of them!

But I love them very, very much:) A little reminder. This is AU on the part of Salvatore's characters.

I wanted to take a moment and thank those that have taken the time to review, and those that have opted to follow me around, I'm touched!

"No," Legolas said, "stay here with Mearnin and the others." Legolas nearly smiled when he saw the stubborn set of Bruenor's jaw, but thought better of it. He found himself wondering if this was how his father had often felt dealing with him. "You are not at your peak," Legolas added, a bright thought coming to mind, "and it is undoubtedly spiders anyway. You dislike spiders, remember?" He couldn't quite keep the amusement from his eyes at the wary look that overtook the dark elf's face. However, he watched the odd elf shake off the fear.

"I can handle 'em," Bruenor said. "Ye might need another set o' hands," he added, his expressive eyes worried.

Legolas was touched by the concern, but adamant. So, Bruenor was forced to concede. At any other time, he might have chosen to follow the group anyway, but the elves had yet to return his weapons, and hadn't bothered telling him where the blades were stashed. He had no choice but to obey. Legolas rested a hand briefly on the young elf's shoulder in sympathetic understanding before taking off into the forest with a handful of his warriors.

Guenhwyvar nudged him, concerned. Bruenor sighed. "Take care of 'em, Guen," Bruenor whispered, ruffling her fur. The panther rumbled in reassurance, then bounded off to take the lead.

Mearnin, and the others remaining behind, moved to set up a temporary camp and beckoned for Bruenor to join them. "Come," Mearnin called, "let us have some refreshment while we wait. How is your head?"

Bruenor felt a constant throb at the base of his skull, but he said, "I'm alreet." After all, what could be done about it that hadn't been? He had taken a swig of his Gram's holy water, but nothing had happened. His head still throbbed and his ribs still ached, and Mearnin had given him what aid he could. He waved off the offer of food and water, feeling nauseated at the thought of consuming anything. The traveling had not helped. Though he had tried to keep his mind off the pain by interacting with the elves, it remained an ever present reminder that he had bounced a few times down a rock face before Guenhwyvar had caught him. The experienced healer seemed to know Bruenor's misery, even if the drow elf didn't voice it.

"Come, rest a moment, Bruenor," Mearnin requested, though a measure of command underlined the words. In that moment, Mearnin reminded him of his grandfather, and Bruenor found himself instinctively obeying. He smiled wistfully as he lay on the palette that Mearnin had prepared. The Healer noticed the soft smile, and felt compelled to ask as he wet a cloth to place on the dark elf's forehead, "What is it?"

"Ye reminded me o' me grandda, Drizzt," Bruenor said, closing his eyes as the cool cloth came to rest on his brow. He smiled again thinking of the Drow Ranger. The reason his family existed as it did. "He's soft spoken. Ne'er heard 'im raise his voice in anger a' any of us." Bruenor chuckled, as he added, "but we ne'er dared disobey when he told us to do somethin'." His grandfather's laughing lavender eyes came to mind, a memory of racing his grandfather and Guenhwyvar down the trail from Mithril Hall. Though the ranger was a 'grandfather', he was still a young elf himself. Was that only two days ago? It felt longer.

Bruenor felt a burning behind his eyes, and wasn't able to stop a hot tear from escaping. "I'm . . ." he fought for control of his voice, "I'm goin' ta make it home again, reet, Mearnin?" he asked, mature enough to know that the elf couldn't possibly answer the question, but young enough to want some assurance, even if it was false. His eyes still closed, he felt the Healer's hand cup his face, much like his father often did, and another tear escaped.

"I believe that the Valar will see you returned to your proper place, young one," the Healer said, his heart aching in sympathy for this elf, but also his family. He couldn't image what this still very young elf's family must be feeling at that moment. As a father himself, the thought of his children being pulled into a strange world made his blood run cold.

And Drizzt Do'Urden, legendary Drow Ranger and grandfather to one Bruenor Battlehammer Do'Urden felt exactly that. His blood ran cold. Had he known of Mearnin's thoughts, he might have appreciated the sympathy. However, the ranger had no idea that Bruenor was safe in the presence of a band of elves. He only knew that Guenhwyvar had failed to answer his call.

"She isn't answering." Drizzt tried to remain calm, but the statuette in his hands felt strangely chilled, lifeless. He felt his son rush anxiously to his side, as well as his daughter-in-law, Neva. He tried again. "Guenhwyvar, come my shadow." Perhaps Bruenor and Guenhwyvar thought to play a prank. If so, he would explain, in no uncertain terms, that he was not amused.

He hoped they were only delaying to tease their family. He prayed fervently that it was merely a prank on Bruenor's part. His grandson could be very mischievous, but with a sinking feeling, Drizzt acknowledged that Bruenor would never intentionally worry his mother.

No wisps of smoke.

No materializing panther.

No Bruenor.

Nothing.

Zaknafein Do'Urden, son of Drizzt, snatched the statuette from his father's suddenly nerveless fingers. "Come on girl," he whispered to the panther that had served as friend, protector, and nursemaid to him and his siblings, as well as their children. "Come on, Guen," he pleaded, but to no avail. He heard his wife's muffled sob and gripped the statuette tighter, calling the panther's name again and again as their family and friends—left standing after the attack—gathered around.

Most of them had seen Bruenor tossed into the abyss and the panther dive in after him. All of them had hoped for the best. All of them had thought to see the young elf materialize next to the massive panther with an impish grin and an assurance that it wouldn't happen again.

With a sinking feeling, most began to fear the worst.

Drizzt saw the grief in the faces around him. He thought of the task of telling his old friend, Bruenor, that Cattibrie's grandson and Bruenor's own namesake was gone. His heart constricted. It might just break the old dwarf to hear it.

It didn't make sense! Even if Guenhwyvar missed catching Bruenor, she would not have died, but returned to the statuette. They wouldn't both be lost. They couldn't be. "No!" Drizzt shouted, surprising all of them. He snatched the statuette back. "They cannot be lost." He took a deep breath, to calm his racing heart. "I will not conclude him dead until I see it with my own eyes," Drizzt declared, his thoughts drifting to the memories of a young barbarian friend long gone. A friend they had assumed dead, but that had been held in torment before returning to them. "If we do not find—" Drizzt bit off the words, finding it difficult to even think of finding Bruenor's body, much less voicing the possibility. "If we do not, then I go to Silverymoon for aide. I WILL find them. Who goes with me?"


	6. Chapter 6

I am sooooo sorry it has taken me this long to update:( I should be beaten and locked in Thranduil's dungeon!

I still don't own any of Tolkien's adorable characters or Salvatore's. Bruenor Battlehammer Do'Urden is a spawn from my brain, though.

Bruenor must have dozed off. One moment, he was listening to Mearnin humming softly beside him while bathing his aching head with a cool cloth. The next, he was sitting on a rise above Mithril Hall with his cousin, Mykail, at his side. He turned and met his cousin's golden gaze and grinned just before he was pulled from the dream.

At first, he thought he was in the mines. The sound of dwarven voices raised had awoken him, but the wet, humid air that stifled him did not fit his home. It brought to mind a dark, twisted forest that was far from the safety of Mithril Hall. But if there was dwarves. . .

Bruenor's eyes snapped open and he got quickly to his feet, startling the Healer beside him, but he didn't even think to apologize. His eyes searched out the owners of the voices he had heard, only to have his hope crushed. They were not dwarves of Mithril Hall. But maybe, maybe they might know of it. "I do no' suppose any o' ye know o' Mithril Hall?" he asked, his eyes on the dwarves. Silence suddenly reigned in the clearing as the dwarves took in the strange elf.

"Wha' kind of elf are ye?!" a tawny haired dwarf barked at him.

Bruenor's eyes narrowed at the rather rude tone of the dwarf, but for the sake of getting home, decided to answer. "I'm a drow, ye ole coot. Now, I've answered yer question, answer mine if'n ye please," the young drow said. "Have any o' ye heard o' Mithril Hall?" Bruenor suspected what the answer would be. Surely if they knew of his home, then the dwarf would've known a drow if he saw one, but he had to ask.

Bruenor watched as the motley crew shared a few looks and shrugs, at least as much as their restraints allowed, before a dark-haired dwarf—their leader by all appearance—answered, "No."

Bruenor barely acknowledged the answer, his attention now caught by the fact that the dwarves were bound. "Why do ye 'ave 'em tied up?" he asked Legolas.

Legolas directed a look at Bruenor meant to question his intelligence, before reminding himself that the young elf wouldn't have any idea about the history between the elves and dwarves of this world. "Our peoples are at odds with one another. Their presence in our wood is a trespass."

Bruenor's eyes widened at the new information, but all he managed to utter in reply was "Oh," but Legolas knew that a question was forthcoming when the young elf's brows drew together in confusion. "Then, why didn't ye tie me up? I'm as good as one meself."

Legolas stared at the drow a moment. He didn't really have a good answer for the question. However, realizing that the dwarves were watching this exchange with great interest, he replied, "You are not of the dwarves of this world," and called for the group to depart, hoping to stall any more difficult questions Bruenor might have.

The elven group began heading home once more, a large group of dwarves and one drow in tow.

While Legolas' warriors stayed alert to their surroundings and their captives, the dwarves were muttering in their own awful sounding dialect to each other, probably plotting an escape, but Legolas had no way of knowing.

Dwarven was one language he never intended to learn.

He heard Bruenor let out a choked laugh, undoubtedly at something one of the dwarves had said at elven expense, and then the air was suddenly filled with a very lyrical stream of dwarven. Legolas stopped dead in his tracks and stepped back into the cover of the forest to observe.

Bruenor was talking to the dwarves.

At first, they seemed wary of him, but something he must have said put them at ease, and they began conversing with the drow in their strange, rumbling language. The younger ones especially seemed to have developed a fast friendship with the young drow. And Bruenor, Bruenor was animated and lively, even more so than he had been before. He was in his element, among the familiar. He was dwarven.

Legolas suddenly felt very uneasy. But what troubled him most was not that Bruenor seemed so very much more dwarven now that there were dwarves for him to interact with. No, it was that the king would not see Bruenor. Legolas feared his father would see an odd elf that too closely resembled a dwarf in far too many ways.

" _You are worried_." Legolas glanced at Tauriel, acknowledging he had heard. There was no reason to reply. It wasn't a question. " _He seems less of an elf now, and yet no less of one_ ," she added, as the group passed them, the two elves hidden from the eyes of their captives and the drow. " _I do not believe any of our group would rebuff him now if he sought their company, even if he is currently befriending the dwarves. They have had time to accept him before seeing how closely his mannerisms are to dwarves."_ Tauriel's eyes met Legolas' as she stated his fears aloud. " _The king's first impression of him, however, will be as one of them."_

" _I cannot let that happen,_ " Legolas said. _"We'll take the dwarves straight down to the cells. I'll have Bruenor taken to the King first, separately. Perhaps, then, Bruenor will simply be a curiousity, not a threat,"_ he added. At least, that was his hope.


End file.
